


Agoraphobia

by AkumaStrife



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 23:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2559830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yeah, I was in solitary. It was safer for everyone else.” Something shifts in Armando’s eyes, calculating and thoughtful and maybe a little fond, and he takes a step forward again to lean against the pinball machine. Alex rubs the back of his neck and looks away, the admissions coming easier when it’s a quarter after four in the morning and just Armando. “Bed’s too soft, here. The room’s too… it’s all a little… uh, big. Open.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I get it, man.” Armando pats his shoulder with a smile and a nod. Alex tries so damn hard to keep from flinching. Heat flares in his chest and he doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agoraphobia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnackerJack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnackerJack/gifts).



> Agoraphobia (from Greek ἀγορά, "Large public square/Marketplace" and -φοβία, -phobia) is an anxiety disorder characterized by anxiety in situations where the sufferer perceives certain environments as dangerous or uncomfortable, often due to the environment's vast openness or crowdedness.

Alex’s shoulders jerk up around his ears when he hears the quiet footsteps padding up the hall, his hands firm on the buttons on either side of the pinball machine, but forces the tension out of his back; violently mashes the fire welling inside his chest down into a spark, tight and uncomfortable in his gut like a sickness. 

“It’s kind of late, man,” Armando says. He comes up to stand beside him, but keeps a handful of inches between them, politely watching him rack up a new high score. “Can’t sleep?”

Alex grunts in response, the space between his eyebrows pinching before he can stop it. He never really was good at reigning his emotions in, but then, that’s why he’s in this mess to begin with. 

“Can’t you?” Alex asks instead after a moment. His last ball slips passed the flappers and ends the game with a comically disappointed buzzing. “Thought with your…” he gestures at him indecisively, “adaption thing, you’d sleep anywhere?”

“I can, but I heard you get up a while ago…” He lets the comment hang between them with an easy shrug. Alex can’t help his gaze darting between Armando’s gentle expression and his arms loose at his side. Everything about Armando seems to be easy and unobtrusive; negativity rolling off him, any problems dealt with a shrug and a smile. He’s not sure if that’s just Armando or part of his mutation.

“Must be different,” Armando says, nodding his head to the rest of the rec room and the hall to their bedrooms, “out here. You were in solitary confinement, right?” 

Alex squares his shoulders without meaning to, animalistic preservation shifting his stance to look bigger as he meets Armando’s look with a guarded one of his own. He catches himself too late and glances at Armando’s arms, expecting the skin to ripple and shift into something thicker or bigger or _anything_ that will protect him. But he stays lanky and vulnerable, taking a measured step back with his hands only half raised.

“Hey now, just a question,” Armando says with a chuckle, “Team bonding and all that, yeah?”

Alex relaxes immediately, exhaustion seeping through his veins and weighing his limbs down. Distantly he knows he should be alarmed how hard it is to stay on guard around Armando, but they’ve been in place for a week now and he hasn’t been able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time. 

He doesn’t know how it’s going to affect his control. 

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, I was in solitary. It was safer for everyone else.” Something shifts in Armando’s eyes, calculating and thoughtful and maybe a little fond, and he takes a step forward again to lean against the pinball machine. Alex rubs the back of his neck and looks away, the admissions coming easier when it’s a quarter after four in the morning and just Armando. “Bed’s too soft, here. The room’s too… it’s all a little… uh, big. Open.”

“Yeah, I get it, man.” Armando pats his shoulder with a smile and a nod. Alex tries so damn hard to keep from flinching. Heat flares in his chest and he doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing or not. 

“The doors don’t lock, either,” slips out before Alex can stop it, and he grimaces, but glowers at Armando, daring him to say a word. But even then the expression feels thinner than usual. He sighs and rubs at his eyes, hunching forward to brace his hands on the pinball machine. He can’t stifle the yawn that follows. The hand on his shoulder, the one that never left, the one that Alex’s been hyper aware of each second, tightens marginally, then moves slowly to rub down his shoulder blade. 

Armando pulls away and Alex barely has a moment to lament the loss of rare contact before he’s being pulled across the room and down the hall. He’s so exhausted, so shocked by the foreign feeling of someone’s hand in his own, that he can do little more than stumble along. He’s tugged past his own room, down a few more doors, into Armando’s. 

He opens his mouth, but Armando waves a a hand at him in the dark. He grabs the chair from the desk in the corner and nudges the door shut with his foot before jamming the chair under the knob, fiddling with it to make sure it’s stuck.

“Better?” Armando asks. Alex peers at his shadowy outline for a long moment, and then slowly nods. Armando grins, his teeth faintly visible, and moves to craw back into his bed. “Guess you’ve got something like reverse claustrophobia. Never heard of it, but it makes sense. A guy gets used to certain things.” There’s a long beat of silence as Armando gets comfortable before he asks, “you comin’ or what?”

“I’m not—“ Alex starts automatically, then stops. 

“Not what? Gay? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Always… in control. Of my powers,” Alex answers through his teeth. 

“Oh, that.” He says it flippantly. _“That”_ as if it’s nothing, and Alex clenches his jaw. “I adapt to survive, Alex. Not really sure if I _can_ die.”

Alex shakes his head and stiffly slides under the covers next to him, careful to stay on his side. Armando scoots closer and raises an arm. “Can I?”

“Are you gonna keep harassing me if I say no?”

“Harassing?” Armando says in surprise. “Jeez, try to do something nice for a guy and this is the thanks I get. _Harassing_ ,” he mutters, draping his arm over Alex’s chest anyways. He ignores Alex tensing up against him and tugs him closer, hooking a leg around him so Alex is snug against his chest and gives a sleepy little sigh as he leans his chin on the top of his head. 

Alex doesn’t breathe until he has to, face pressed into Armando’s neck, muscles too tense and cramping from not moving too long. Armando’s breath evens out as he drifts off, like this is no skin off his back, and it’s only then that Alex finds he can sink into him, fatigue tugging on his eyelids until they’re closing against his will. 

It should be too constricting and like he’s trapped. 

It should be. 

But it’s not. 

Maybe that’s the point. 


End file.
